I'm in that part of my leaving process where everything becomes a series of lasts - last visits to favourite haunts, last meetings with friends, last tidying of the garden and - the most melancholy last of all - the last time I am able to take flowers to my parents' grave.
I have bought some artificial flowers, there is no point in putting fresh ones on that will die so quickly and then remain, looking sadder and sadder on the untended grave for at least a year and a half.
Today I took them to the cemetery and replaced the flowers that had been there. They look bright and cheerful and though they will fade it will take time.
Today's River of Stones Poem was written when I returned. It's a cinquain (a word the spell-checker apparently doesn't recognize), a form I haven't used for some time.
29 June 2011
artificial and bright
carried through the rain they do not